


birds of a feather

by tamaslin



Series: they sing that i'm not born to stay [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: First Meetings, Platonic Relationships, but that's in chapter two, gustav appreciates large woman like We All Do, platonic mollyasha or bust, there's gonna be a bar fight at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 08:32:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamaslin/pseuds/tamaslin
Summary: They call him the devil when he smiles and it reminds her of another time in a tavern, in a darker land. In a colorless land and she’s black feathered and bloody before the patrons she saved. Devil.part of a series speculating on yasha's past





	birds of a feather

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna keep doin this series until we finally get that sweet, sweet yasha backstory.
> 
> a small fic about how i think molly and yasha meeting went, and how they became friends after.

The Empire, it’s called, by all those that live in it. She understands when the word ‘Dwendalian’ first trips over her accented tongue in a tavern and the keep gives her a sideways look. _We’re all Dwendalian, here_. The connection is made a moment too soon when brown eyes take in her pale skin. Mismatched gaze and how she shifts in her stool. Waiting for a fight – or a storm. Waiting for it all to pass over.

She leaves without paying for her drink, her pockets void of any coin that would be worthwhile within the Empire. _The Empire_. As though that was all the vast land was.

Work is easy enough to come across when she speaks little and carries much. There’s the logging operation near Hupperduk, the mines along the mountains to the west, the bandits hungry for coin along the road. All the coin she carries bears the visage of the Queen of the Krynn Dynasty with her angled face and sweeping ears. Yasha doesn’t learn to hate it so much as she learns to hide it and all that comes with that price. She tosses the coins into a river on her way south and a merchant catches her with his tanned hand, his smiling eyes.

“What did you wish for?” he asks and a moment later she understands the lilt to his speech enough to respond.

“I’m sorry?”

“You threw coins – what did you wish for?” He’s a forgetful gray face and a smile. The hand on her arm drops but he remains. Light, a soul seeing her as another hope.

“Was I supposed to?” She watches the shine of gold fade into the riverbed. Every penny earned sinking into the silt until all she sees is a glimmer. Doesn’t know if it’s her fortune or a rock. A trick of the light, like hope. “I forgot to.”

“Well –” Lips suck in against what teeth remain and he begins to head back to his wagon. On the back of it are two figures in tattered cloaks, one far smaller than the other with diseased ears peeking from the sides. _Strange companions_ but he speaks before she can comment. “It’s never too late to make a wish, you know.”

The silt almost covers the coins when she turns back to them. _I don’t know how wishes work,_ she imagines the Stormlord listens, imagines the sound of the river as rainfall instead. _But give me a path and a purpose. Give me something to fight for._

When she turns to the man and the cart he’s already heading away and she sees the travelers fading into the distance. The flash of fiery hair and green hand in pale palm, curving along the road until they’re gone.

She follows the river south until her eye catches deep blue on the horizon. Sea, or night stretching in a small spot in the land. It’s only when she gets closer, fear creeping into her throat, when she sees the massive tent for the first time. Just outside the edge of a small village where farmhands make their way to and fro.

Later she would wonder if curiosity or fate drove her footsteps closer. Later, she still doesn’t know the answer.

Her instinct demands she skirt around the edge of the large camp with its many carts. As she wanders she catches the strong arms of a half-orc, the flash of fire and a swatch of vibrant fabric disappearing inside the tent.

News travels fastest in taverns and she heads there, a pale form above the tanned work folk having a drink to hide from the burning sun. Their heavy gazes now form a thick blanket across her shoulders and against her ears she hears her mantra. _Run, Yasha. Run. Before they learn who you are._ She sits at the bar and places down a silver for an ale. It has the right face on it now, the stern man they call King. He shares an expression with the Empress and Yasha dwells on that until the coin is swept up by the barmaid with curling auburn hair piled high.

She doesn’t hear the door open, but she sees the same fabric last seen disappearing inside the night sky.

“Hello, hello.” Voice carries a different accent from the ones she’s grown used to and mismatched eyes peek over her shoulder. To the curling horns, the pointed-tooth grin. “Mollymauk Tealeaf, of the Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities, at your service.”

“Devil.” The first man spits over the top of his pint and Yasha catches it. The tense line in the tiefling’s shoulders almost hidden beneath the weight of his coat. “Piss off.”

“Alright. Lovely day, sir.” He speaks with no sign of anger but beneath her skin, Yasha feels thunder.

They call him the devil when he smiles and it reminds her of another time in a tavern, in a darker land. In a colorless land and she’s black feathered and bloody before the patrons she saved. _Devil_. They whispered and stared at her. 

They whisper and stare at him now as he moves from table to table with little kindness from the patrons until one stands. Blocks Mollymauk from making his exit. Yasha stands from the bar and surprises herself with the low rumble of her own voice. Thunder, from the home of her god.

“Is there going to be trouble?”


End file.
